Revelations
by junejuly15
Summary: Sherlock and John: Their first kiss, their first night. Confessions and love in 221b Baker Street. Humour and Romance. Iceman/Sherlock and John/Domestic Bliss rewritten
1. Iceman

This is the first part of my story **Revelations**. It contains my older stories Iceman/ Sherlock and John/ Domestic Bliss which I have rewritten for another time and another place ;-)

**Iceman** was inspired by a fanvid which suggested that Irene told Sherlock a nickname that Mycroft uses for him: Iceman. When I wrote this story I hadn't actually seen _Scandal in Belgravia_ so I didn't know that these had been Moriarty's nicknames for the Holmes Boys: Mycroft the Iceman and Sherlock the Virgin. But somehow I had the same idea as Moriarty regarding Sherlock's virginal state ;-)

Enjoy reading!

Obviously I don't own anything …

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><p><strong>Iceman <strong>

Sherlock was lying on his unmade bed, thinking. The expressions shadowing his face were changing from disgust to exasperation to boredom and back to disgust. His head, propped up on a pillow, was leaning against the wooden headrest. He hadn't bothered to dress and was still in his pyjamas. One arm was hanging down the side of the bed fiddling with the light switch of the bedside lamp. Click: on; click: off; click: on. Constantly.

'Sherlock? Where are you?'

Sherlock lazily turned his head to where the call had come from. He didn't bother responding and continued switching the lamp on and off and on. He heard John walking around in the flat; imagined him shedding off his jacket and leaving it on the sofa. He heard him ranging the groceries in the kitchen cupboards and the fridge, softly cursing under his breath and then John's soft footsteps coming up to his bedroom door. There was a tentative knock and the door opened. Light fell in from the hallway, Sherlock switched the bedside lamp off.

'Sherlock? What are you doing? Sitting there, all alone in the dark,' John asked.

'That's my life,' Sherlock answered morosely.

'What is?'

'Alone in the dark.'

John raised an eyebrow, 'Oh, I see. We've got the blues then, haven't we?'

Sherlock laughed mirthlessly, 'The _blues_? That's what they call it?'

'Well, yes; you know, sitting around, in the dark, alone. Moping, feeling sorry for yourself. Feeling miserable - lonely.' John walked over to the chair opposite Sherlock's bed and with a grunt sat down in it. 'I know exactly how that feels.'

John switched on the lamp on the side table next to the chair and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock stopped fiddling with the light switch. He averted his eyes, looking sullen.

'Do you? How can you? You've always had people around you.'

John frowned, 'And what makes you so sure that I never feel lonely?'

'Because _you_ know how to connect with people. You know how they feel, what they feel,' Sherlock burst out and he sounded almost accusing.

Like a little boy, John thought. 'And you don't? You of all people don't know what other people feel?' John replied, incredulous.

'No, _I_ don't.' Sherlock said with exasperation. 'That's why Mycroft calls me Iceman - Irene told me,' he broke off and looked away again.

John put his head in his hands and tiredly rubbed at his temples. He let out a sigh. 'Right. Now we're getting somewhere. Mycroft and Irene. _The duo sent from hell._' Sherlock shortly glanced up John. 'Why do you care what Mycroft thinks? Let alone that woman.'

John got up from the chair and walked over to Sherlock. He sat down next to him on his bed, leaning against the headrest as well, not quite sure if Sherlock was ready for contact. He did indeed keep his distance, deeply in thought.

John glanced at him; he felt boredom, sadness and something else emanating from him. And yes, it felt like coldness. John's heart clenched and instinctively he reached out and took Sherlock's hand. Sherlock let him, and surprisingly felt some tension drain away from him.

When he started speaking again, it was in a low voice, as if talking to himself.

'I'm better off being the Iceman anyway. What good did it do to me? All these _feelings_.' He pronounced the word as if it was something distasteful. 'I feel like a spit-out chewing gum.'

John pressed his hand 'Sherlock, when you love…'

'I didn't!'

'No, I know, you didn't. But when you feel, strongly feel, there is always the possibility of disappointment, of being let-down…'

'That's why it's better to keep a distance,' Sherlock said, sounding very determined. John felt an almost overwhelming need to help him out of this mood, to find something to comfort him and most importantly to find something to convince him that he got it completely wrong.

'It might appear to you like that now, Sherlock. But you see this is only one side of the medal. When there's dark, there's also light.'

'Thank you for your sound advice, Mrs. Hudson!' Sherlock said sarcastically.

'Well. Yes. You know what I mean,' John added sheepishly.

'I don't, actually,' Sherlock was quick to answer.

'Sherlock, just because you got hurt this time, it doesn't mean it will happen again. Or that your feelings are wasted. They never are and if you're honest with yourself you'll have to admit you know that.'

John felt Sherlock relax slightly. He moved nearer to Sherlock, let go of his hand and put his arm around him. Sighing Sherlock let his head sink on John's chest.

'You make me wonder,' Sherlock mumbled, nuzzling close to his neck.

'What does?'

'Nothing, you just make me wonder.'

'Oh, okay.'

Sherlock had done it again. He managed to relax but left John confused. But he felt content that he had been able to calm him. He knew exactly what he had been through and what had brought along this maudlin mood. He feared those moods, feared for Sherlock. But there was also anger when he thought of Mycroft and of that woman. He had watched helplessly when Sherlock and Irene had been pacing around each other like two mighty predators, trying to find a weak spot. Ready to pounce - And who for God's sakes dares having a text alert like that?

He had sensed and seen Sherlock's fascination for her. And no matter the reason for that fascination it had still hurt.

He looked down at Sherlock. At his face. His clear features more peaceful now. Sherlock seemed calmer, almost drifting off into sleep. They were content to lay like that for a while in calm closeness.

'You know, John?'

'What, Sherlock?'

'What I told you is not true.'

'What do you mean?'

'I told you that I had no friends.'

John smiled and kissed Sherlock on the forehead, smoothing down some unruly curls with his fingers. Sherlock let him and continued in a quiet voice, 'Living a normal life is a struggle for me.'

'I know, but…'

'Let me, please. John, I've never told you, but I want to now.'

John felt apprehensive, but he was quiet. He caressed Sherlock's long, slender fingers.

'Feelings are always hard for me; so hard to fathom. Human interactions are a really difficult area.' He paused, musing. 'And the biggest incentive of all – love.' Another pause. 'I never felt love. I don't know how that feels; what it does to a person. I never received _tender loving care_ when I was a child. My mother despised me, basically told me I was scum unworthy to be loved.'

John closed his eyes, the image of a small miserable boy flashing in front of him. It made him sad. He almost missed it when Sherlock continued.

'So, I didn't.'

'What?'

'Love, I just didn't. I lived, I used my brain, I solved crimes. I existed.' He was quiet for a moment, collecting his thoughts. 'But then you came into my life and something happened to me and,' he halted again. When he continued his voice was barely audible. 'You gradually opened up my heart. That's why she could get to me.'

Sherlock weaved his fingers through John's, interlocking them and John's heart constricted. Sherlock had never told him, they had never talked about their _relationship_. John wasn't even sure if what they had could be remotely called like that.

They had certainly grown very close to each other over the last months. John knew how he felt about Sherlock. And yes, there had been physical contact; the odd hug that lasted a little longer or a peck on the cheek that wasn't strictly necessary. They were more than flatmates but less than lovers.

Sherlock softly went on. 'You were the one to teach me that there's more to life than intellect and that people offer more than being just an object for analysis. You make me aware how dreadfully I treat people sometimes. How shameful my behavior was towards Molly.'

John listened intently to Sherlock's quiet monologue, he didn't dare interrupting him. He wanted him to go on.

'But I know now that _you_, John, not Irene, are my heart.'

Yes! John thought and felt like punching a fist in the air. Inwardly he idiotically grinned from ear to ear.

'Irene was so confusing. I feel like I was being manipulated all the time; as if she tricked me into feeling for her. She was fascinating, sexy, incredibly clever and cunning, I give you that. She was really one of my league.'

John felt a sting and couldn't refrain himself from asking 'And I'm not?'

Sherlock sat up and half-turned to study John's face. The face that he had grown so used to, and more. He gently took John's face into his hands and looked straight into his eyes.

'No. You're not,' he said, his fascinating voice very low and serious, 'You are in a league above me. You are human, you are my humanity.'

John blinked. Then he sighed theatrically.

'Thank goodness! And I thought you'd fallen for my athletic body!'

Sherlock pinched his cheeks and started to giggle like a schoolboy. This giggle was so infective that John couldn't help but joining in, and after the laughter had died away they settled down on the bed again. This time Sherlock put his hand confidently on John's belly and snuggled up close to him. They enjoyed the ensuing silence.

'When I said I have never loved I meant something else as well,' Sherlock said in a timid voice after a while. 'I've never experienced the kind of love when you - well, you know. When you - two people together –um - being,' he hesitated, 'please don't make me say it.'

'What are you talking about? Give me a hint, Sherlock,' John teased him.

Sherlock winced, but then he continued, 'I mean, being together with somebody - Intimately – um - Doing _things_.'

Sherlock was quiet again, embarrassed. John couldn't help himself, but somehow he enjoyed the awkwardness Sherlock had to endure. And he felt flattered and privileged and exhilarated at the same time.

'_Things?_' John repeated. He looked at Sherlock, 'I'm sure I can show you some _things_,' he said in a husky voice.

He gently extricated himself from Sherlock's arm and sat up on the bed so that he could fully look at him. Leaning down he took in his pale beauty and the apprehension on his face. He stroked the soft skin, the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He wasn't surprised when he saw fear in those beautiful pale eyes. He slowly bent down and brushed his lips over Sherlock's mouth, then kissed him tenderly on the left cheek. When Sherlock didn't react he moved on to the corner of his mouth. Nothing. He placed little kisses on his lips. Sherlock still didn't respond.

'If you like it you can respond to it, you know.'

'Oh, I see.'

And when John kissed Sherlock for real, Sherlock did indeed respond. Tentatively at first. But then he got the hang of it. John broke off to catch his breath.

'Not so icy this man, after all,' John panted and Sherlock grinned. Irresistibly.

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><p><strong>AN** I hope you liked it! Reviews would be lovely!


	2. Sherlock and John

**Sherlock and John**

John woke with a start.

It was pitch black and he had no idea where he was. After a moment his eyes had adjusted to the darkness and when he looked around he could make out the faint outlines of a window, a chair. That seemed familiar – thank God.

He felt a bit woozy. He looked around him some more. He was certain that he wasn't in his own room. But this room and this bed weren't entirely alien to him either.

The bed he was lying on was very narrow. At least that's how it seemed to him because he was confined to a tiny space in the corner of it.

He was naked, but he wasn't cold. He could feel heat radiating from somewhere next to him.

His eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, moved slowly towards the source of this heat. He saw a naked body; a naked back to be more precise. A lean, but muscular naked back with pale, smooth skin. When his eyes roved further downwards he saw a perfectly rounded backside only half covered by the sheets. Undoubtedly male.

His eyes quickly moved up again towards the upper regions of this body lying next to him.

He saw dark, dishevelled curly hair and the beautiful half-profile of Sherlock. Peacefully sleeping.

John grinned to himself. He felt content. Very much so. Like the cat that got the cream, actually.

Fully awake now he settled back on the bed trying to shuffle around for a bit more space. Sherlock grunted.

Typical of him to occupy more than half of the bed. Not that John would have known that before last night. Last night! - John really couldn't wipe that grin off his face.

He turned so that he spooned Sherlock's body and put his hand on his flat belly. He gently moved his fingers over Sherlock's soft, warm skin causing him to stir. He planted a soft kiss between the smooth shoulder blades. Sherlock moved backwards a bit so that their bodies completely touched and moved his hips against John's.

'Hmm,' Sherlock murmured sleepily, 'my thoughts precisely.'

* * *

><p>'How do you like it?' John was busy in the kitchen. He had cleared a space on the kitchen table. For that purpose he had had to move aside a microscope, several dirty test tubes and three Petri dishes which looked as if something alive inhabited them.<p>

Sherlock entered the kitchen, fully dressed. 'What do you mean?' He had just taken a shower, his hair was still damp. John walked over to Sherlock and kissed him. He smelt fresh and clean.

'Your post-love-night-breakfast. How do you like it?'

'Quick. I need to be gone.'

'Oh,' John sounded disappointed, 'I thought we'd have a nice breakfast. The two of us. Talk a little.'

'What would we have to talk about?' Sherlock tried to make light of it, but he saw that John was hurt.

'I don't know,' John shrugged, 'about us.'

'Sorry. That needs to wait. Lestrade texted me. He wants to see me.' Sherlock felt uneasy, the lie had come a little too quickly to him.

'I'll come with you then,' John made a move towards the hall.

'No,' Sherlock quickly said, stopping John in his tracks, 'he wants to see me alone.'

John became quiet. He nervously fiddled with the teabags he was holding. Suddenly he felt cold. He cleared his throat. 'Sherlock. You don't regret what happened, do you?' he asked.

'Should I?' What a stupid, stupid reply that was, Sherlock thought. What am I trying to do here?

'Of course, not. You just seem to be uncomfortable.' John couldn't assess the situation. It didn't feel right. It wasn't at all what he had expected.

'It's just … I don't want to force you into something. I only thought we might want to talk about us and about what happened. See where we stand now.'

'How quaint,' Sherlock said smugly.

John frowned and dipped his chin. Sherlock noticed it. Wrong remark again, he thought, how stupid. He wasn't able to stop himself though.

'Really, John, I don't have any more time now. Lestrade's waiting.'

He pecked John on the cheek, put on his scarf and coat and left.

John stood there perplexed. Or maybe not so perplexed after all because how on earth could he have expected Sherlock to react like any other normal man?

What had happened last night had been anything but normal. Not for him and most certainly not for Sherlock.

Sherlock, confessing to him last night. Confessing that he had never loved before, not with his heart and not with his body. John knew for certain that one of these matters had been seen to. But he wasn't at all sure about the other one.

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><p>Sherlock didn't venture far. In fact he didn't even leave the house. He only got as far as the stairs in the downstairs hall. There he sat down facing the front door, thinking about the last awkward moments. He pondered the fact that he had felt the need to leave. To be alone. He really couldn't say why, but the need had been almost overwhelming.<p>

Last night had changed everything. For him, for them. Contrary to what John feared he had no regrets. John who thought he had been the one in charge last night when it had been in fact Sherlock who had played him like a puppet on a string.

Because he had wanted it so much. He had wanted _John_ so much. He thought of John, of how gentle and loving he had been. How passionate.

His heart made a leap. What a pleasant sensation, he thought. I wouldn't mind feeling that more often. I wouldn't mind feeling John more often.

No, it certainly wasn't John who troubled him.

He wasn't sure about himself. It troubled him that he wasn't sure if he was good enough for John. If he could live up to his expectations.

What if he wasn't up to John's standards? What if he annoyed him_? - _More than now? Sherlock had to admit that he probably needn't worry on that account - But what if John became bored with him or what would be much worse if John started to bore him? What if the physical attraction faded? What if there was nothing left then?

What if John found out that he was hollow?

What if John could fill that void?

Sherlock found many things to fret about - but actually, there was so much more that drew him towards John.

He loved the way John contradicted him, how he put him in his place when he had been socially ungraceful again. He loved the way John was at his side when they were working, a silent understanding bonding them. He loved the way John feigned ignorance, this way he had to ask back when he wasn't entirely sure about something.

They were an unlikely pair, but that was a turn-on really. That their bodies fitted well together he smugly had to admit. And their hearts? Sherlock was as certain as he could be about his own feelings. Since he had no experience with this kind of situation he could only speculate about John. Well, a little more than that really. And if last night was any indicator - Sherlock grinned.

He wondered how the people around them would perceive them as a unit, as a couple, as lovers. Not that he overly cared what others thought about his sexual orientation, but he knew that people's opinions mattered to John.

Sherlock smirked when he thought about telling Anderson. Or better still: show him! That would stun the ignorant sod into silence.

He continued sitting there, thinking. And he felt relieved because these few minutes alone had shown him one thing: He knew for sure that there was no way back for him, and what was more important, that he didn't want one.

All of a sudden a voice piping up next to him made him start.

'Sherlock, dear, what are you doing here? Why aren't you upstairs? With John?'

Mrs Hudson sounded concerned but, strangely enough, also very cheerful.

'Oh, nothing much, Mrs Hudson. Just sitting around,' Sherlock answered and smiled up at her. He was aware that his behavior must seem odd. She didn't seem to mind though, but bent down to Sherlock instead and said in a low voice.

'By the way. Congratulations, boys!' and winked at him.

'What for?' Sherlock demanded, a dreadful thought creeping up in his mind.

Mrs Hudson in her cheerful morning mood confirmed his fears promptly. He was astounded to notice that she seemed to suppress a girlish giggle.

'It's an old house, Sherlock. Rather thin walls – and I don't sleep well.' She paused meaningfully for effect before adding almost in a whisper, 'And my bedroom is right below yours.'

'Oh,' Sherlock said. She cheekily winked at him and Sherlock flushed crimson. Seeing his reaction Mrs Hudson was quick to reassure him.

'Oh, don't you fret, my dear. I don't mind at all and it was about bloody time!'

Sherlock was a little surprised to hear Mrs Hudson swear. She beamed at him, obviously waiting for him to respond. But Sherlock couldn't, he was somewhat mortified that Mrs Hudson had - Oh, for the grace of God!

'So, why are you sitting here, all dressed up? Off you go, straight up to him. It's really not right to let him alone now.' She patted his arm in a motherly and also encouraging fashion. Sherlock weakly nodded.

'No more time for idle chatter, my dear. I need to dash to get the shopping done for the weekend. If you boys can find the time, do come in for tea this afternoon.' Again she winked at Sherlock and left.

He sat there for another minute or so, stupefied, but once he got over what she had just told him, he could see it quite clearly: Mrs Hudson in her simple view of the world had hit it spot-on.

Of course, running away from the breakfast table, sitting in the dark hall and avoiding John had been childish. Of course, this kind of behavior could not lead anywhere. He could see now that it had been inappropriate. Somehow he was sure that lovers wouldn't act that way. Again his heart made a leap when he thought of John and himself as lovers.

So Sherlock decided to tackle it head-on. He got up, brushed down his coat and bounded up the stairs to their flat.

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><p>John was surprised to hear Sherlock coming back so soon after he had left. Barely ten minutes later to be precise. John had first busied himself with making breakfast to overcome his disappointment. Tea, toast, butter, marmalade. But Sherlock's sudden departure had really killed any appetite he had worked up last night. So he had left the breakfast untouched on the kitchen table and had moved on to the living room. He was standing at the windows looking down on Baker Street when Sherlock came back.<p>

John turned to face Sherlock. His heart made a leap and he felt a stirring of desire when he saw him. Sherlock looked pale but determined. John felt insecure and he had no idea what to expect now.

Sherlock looked at John, his gaze very intense. He dropped his eyes for a moment and when he looked back up he had the grace to look abashed. He noisily cleared his throat and then said 'Listen, John. I'm sorry.'

'Right,' was all John managed. He stayed where he was, close to the windows. He waited.

Sherlock continued, 'John, what happened last night was amazing.'

'Absolutely amazing'

'I have been longing for that for weeks.'

'For months and months, actually.'

'I don't think there could be anything better.'

'It was only the beginning.'

Sherlock hesitated. He looked a bit out of his depths. He took a few steps towards John and a little smile curled the corners of his lips when he continued.

'There are just a few things I want established.'

'Like what?' John was curious now. Where was this heading?

'We will continue working together as before. I will be the one to tell Anderson and you won't make me do all those lovey-dovey things. No candlelit dinners, no moonlight walks and most importantly don't call me darling, sweetheart, honey pie, cherry blossom or any other such name. And ...'

'Yes. Yes. No, and?'

'I will not meet your parents,' Sherlock actually managed to keep a straight face saying that and John snorted, 'Agreed.'

John felt exhilarated when he walked over to the smirking Sherlock. He grabbed hold of his scarf and pressed his lips on Sherlock's. This time Sherlock knew how to respond; immediately and with passion. John let go of the scarf and slipped his arms inside his suit jacket, drawing him close, embracing him. He caressed his spine, moving up and down in small circling motions and Sherlock arched his back and let out little moans of pleasure; John smiled and kissed him with new force. He nipped at his lower lip, moved on to lick over the impossibly soft cupid's bow. When he looked into Sherlock's eyes, they were dark, his pupils dilated into an almost impossible dimension. His cheeks were flushed, a startling contrast to his usual pale complexion. John pressed the tip of his tongue against Sherlock's lips and when he parted them in welcome he slipped his tongue into Sherlock's warm mouth and they tasted and explored each other until John had to break off, panting, catching his breath.

There were too many unnecessary barriers between them so John helped Sherlock to shed scarf, coat and suit jacket. He worked the buttons of Sherlock's shirt for a while without success, cursing under his breath.

'For f…'s sake what is it with those buttons! I never thought I'd say that, but right now I hate these tight shirts you're wearing,' he said with gritted teeth.

They locked eyes and Sherlock broke into another fit of giggles. It always astonished John that someone as cerebral as Sherlock could lose himself in this silly and lovable giggling.

Together they finally managed to get the shirt off. And seeing Sherlock's beautiful naked torso, this pale unblemished skin, made John dizzy. No wonder when virtually all the blood in his body had decided to pool in his midsection. Not that Sherlock noticed; he was very busy getting off John's jumper and then his shirt, his turn to nervously fumble with the buttons, his face a study of concentration. John's lips twitched, he couldn't help it and started giggling again. He lost his balance and tripped on the rug, and holding on to Sherlock they both collapsed laughing onto the floor in a tangle of limbs.

They lay there for a while. On the rug in front of the sofa, panting, half-naked; content just to look at each other - for the moment. Sherlock studied John and traced the outlines of his face with his fingers as if memorizing it with all his senses. John moved closer to him and covered his face with kisses. Relishing the softness of the skin, bathing in its beauty. Still amazed that this was all his now.

'Sherlock' John murmured; burying his mouth in his hair. Then he broke off to look at Sherlock again. He smiled lopsidedly and tentatively said 'My love.' And tracing Sherlock's lips with his thumb he asked, 'How do you like it?'

And as before Sherlock asked 'What do you mean?'

'This – Us - You and me - Sherlock and John.'

'Fine. John,' Sherlock softly said and smiled, 'It's all fine.'


	3. Domestic Bliss

**Domestic Bliss**

'No!' John said.

'No, be careful!'

'Yes.'

'That's not how it's done, Sherlock. I told you.'

'Yes.'

'Sherlock, are you listening to me? That's not how it's done!' John was exasperated now.

'So what?' Sherlock replied, ignoring John.

'It might break, then you'll get the egg yolk all over the white and _that's _disgusting!'

Sherlock continued to ignore him and went on fiddling with the eggs, the pan and other ingredients he had amassed next to the cooker. It smelt burnt and the kitchen was beginning to get smoky.

'Everything alright, boys?' Mrs Hudson shouted from downstairs. 'There's smoke in the hall and it smells burnt!'

'Everything's under control. Don't you worry, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock shouted back, his voice booming with confidence.

John realized that it hadn't been a terribly good idea to let Sherlock prepare the breakfast. But they had agreed that Sherlock should give it a go and Sherlock could be very persuasive if his mind was set on something. He wanted to improve or refine some of his more mundane skills, he'd explained. Apparently he had even started to pump the people in their personal surroundings for information.

'Mrs Hudson proved to be an invaluable source in the household department,' he had solemnly announced. John doubted from what he now saw in their kitchen that their conversations could possibly have touched on the minefield of cooking.

The problem probably wasn't that Sherlock didn't possess a talent for frying eggs, but that he was rather stubborn about it. He wanted, as usual, have his own way.

'You know, John, the eggs aren't terribly burnt. I think we should give it try!' Sherlock turned away from the cooker with the frying pan in his hands, rather proud of himself. He put it on the table in front of John.

John stared at the sad black remnants and sighed. It was no use, though; he would have to try them at least. Sherlock could get into a huff when his well-meant efforts weren't appreciated. He was like a little child sometimes, John thought, and not for the first time. He dipped his chin, cleared his throat and steeling himself he took some.

'Lovely,' John said with his mouth full, quickly washing it down with tea that was too milky and too sweet. Sherlock beamed.

'It's going to be a proper roast next time. Mrs Hudson gave me a wonderful recipe.' The look of alarm on John's face had apparently been obvious because Sherlock's lips curled in a smile, 'Don't worry. I'm not overly keen on that either.'

Sherlock spooned the rest of the eggs onto John's plate before he positioned the pan in the sink and walked around the table. He pecked John on the cheek and when he turned to face him, Sherlock pulled him up to his feet and kissed him in earnest. Deep, sweet and sensuous kisses. He'd closed his eyes to employ his newly-found expertise. John had found out that it was very arousing to watch Sherlock when he let himself go. A rare and unique sight, reserved for John and John only. He had to admit that Sherlock threw himself into kissing with the same seriousness and enthusiasm that he would have employed in any other field that had piqued his interest. John closed his eyes and shut off his brain. Sherlock tasted of sweet milky tea and smelt like a wood fire. But there was another scent underlying it all; that of a chip shop.

'You smell like you fried chips all morning. I think we need to get that smell out of your clothes and hair before we can go out and meet Lestrade. What do you say, why don't we skip breakfast?' John kissed Sherlock again, brushing over his soft lips. 'Shower?' he asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively and Sherlock smirked.

* * *

><p>One hour later they were finally on the way to their appointment with Lestrade. They walked up Carson Road, when Sherlock said, 'Whatever I do, just go with it. Will you do that for me, John?'<p>

'What are you talking about? I'd rather know what you are up to.'

'Just trust me.'

John wanted to trust Sherlock very much, but he felt distinctly uneasy.

They entered the old semi in 47 Carson Road, West Dulwich, the address Lestrade had summoned them to. A mysterious case, the second body in five days, the same circumstances, apparently the same modus operandi and no clues so far.

Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan were already there, among others.

'Just the people we needed,' Sherlock mumbled.

John didn't catch it, 'Sorry?'

'Nothing.'

Sherlock and John greeted Lestrade with a nod. Sherlock studiously ignored Anderson, greeted the female officer 'Donovan!' and got the expected greeting 'Freak!' in reply.

Lestrade showed Sherlock and John into the gloomy living room where the body lay sprawled on the sofa. There wasn't very much blood, just around the wounds that were clearly visible

'Glad you could come.' Lestrade pointed at the body. 'Young male, in his twenties. Numerous stab wounds in the back and front. Two front teeth are missing, ripped out apparently.'

'Interesting,' Sherlock murmured, moving closer to the corpse. He watched closely for a second, then without looking up he extended his right hand towards Anderson and demanded, 'Anderson, go fetch me a small torch, I need to examine the mouth.'

Exasperated Anderson turned to Lestrade 'I'm not his bloody maid. I don't…,' but Lestrade cut him short with a quick shake of the head. Grudgingly Anderson went to fetch the wished item.

A shout from the front room summoned Lestrade and Donovan seconds later and they left the room as well.

'Did you forget your torch? You usually have one,' John was curious. Sherlock wouldn't normally forget anything connected to work.

'No, no. It's here in my pocket,' Sherlock replied absentmindedly and patted the pocket of his dark coat. John raised an eyebrow, wondering what Sherlock was up to.

Lestrade came back and positioned himself near the corpse. Sherlock got up and motioned John to step a few feet aside with him. They waited in silence. Lestrade apparently curious, John anxious.

When Anderson and Donovan finally came back into the room, Sherlock grabbed John's head, pulled him close and started kissing him passionately and thoroughly and despite the initial shock of having an audience and being next to a corpse John couldn't help himself and leaned into Sherlock's forceful kiss burying both hands in Sherlock's glorious curls. This little performance was met with utter and stunned silence.

Anderson looked as if his eyes would leave his skull. He turned ashen and then flushed crimson. Donovan looked enraged and somewhat indignant, her mouth pinched. Lestrade was simply smirking.

Sherlock watched their reactions from the corners of his eyes. Apparently satisfied he broke off from John not without giving him one last heartfelt kiss. John panted, trying to catch his breath. He glowered at Sherlock, but this impossible man didn't even notice.

Sherlock pretended to study Anderson, enjoying the awkward silence before smugly saying 'Anderson, old friend. Thanks for the torch.' He walked nonchalantly over to him and took the torch out his motionless hands. 'Now, Anderson. This body. Tell me about your meagre results so far.'

But Anderson couldn't, he had literally lost his speech and slowly backed out of the room before he turned and fled. Donovan was right on his heels. Sherlock turned his gaze on Lestrade and, feigning ignorance, said to the inspector who was still smirking 'What's gotten into them?'

'Beats me,' Lestrade gleefully said.

* * *

><p>'You could've at least warned me, Sherlock,' John was angry with him and didn't hide it. They had just left the crime scene. John had kept up an angry silence there, barely uttering a word as long as they had been with Lestrade and the others.<p>

'Didn't you enjoy it?' Sherlock silently chuckled as if he was reliving the whole scene.

'Enjoy? What? That you chose to show the whole world that we are lovers without talking to me beforehand?' John huffed. 'No, I didn't enjoy that.'

'Why? What's bothering you? Do you really care so much what others think?' Sherlock snorted derisively. John looked away. 'Or are you ashamed? Of us?'

'Of course not,' John's was quick to respond, his voice growing softer again. 'Of course, I'm not ashamed. How could I be? It's just that I'm not used to it. It's all so new to me. Don't forget I've never been with a man before you.'

'Neither have I,' Sherlock said stating the obvious.

'Well, yes. You know what I mean. It's so different to what I used to be.'

He was lost in thought for a moment, watching Sherlock and his unreadable face. He almost relented, but then the anger he had felt earlier at the crime scene came back with a vengeance.

'Do you want to know what really bothers me, Sherlock? That you used me as a prop in your petty little feud with Anderson. Totally ignoring that I might not want to be part of it. You can't treat people like that, you really can't. Oh, for God's sakes, I'm not Molly!' He was almost ranting now.

Sherlock seemed to consider John's outbreak. He frowned, pondering what he heard for a moment and then he innocently asked 'Not good?'

'Absolutely not good, Sherlock,' John answered, exhausted now.

'But I didn't mean to hurt you, John. I honestly thought you wouldn't mind.'

'Well, I did.'

'So I see,' Sherlock hesitated and taking a step towards John he said, 'I'm sorry, John. Forgive me.' He was silent again, trying to find something to placate John's anger. 'Annoying people who are completely ignorant of anything resembling intelligence, is part of my character. I absolutely cannot abide stupidity and ignorance. There is something in me that simply cannot resist.'

'But you have to, Sherlock, because that's what people are. Sometimes they are stupid or ignorant; sometimes they won't reach your standards. That's the way of the world. Just leave them be,' John opened his arms to underline his words.

Sherlock seemed to reflect what John had said, his face concentrated and serious, but then a grin lightened up his feline features.

'Did you see Anderson's face?'

John snorted, despite himself, 'I did. I think he won't be able to look you in the eyes for quite a while.'

When they reached Baker Street they had come to an agreement of sorts. John would be the one responsible for breakfast, cooked or not. Because frankly even the tea Sherlock made was undrinkable.

Sherlock would try to refrain himself from infuriating Anderson. To reach an agreement here had been quite a struggle. Sherlock had actually argued that it was his God-given right to expose stupidity when he came across it and that Anderson really was an outstanding specimen (bless his arrogance, John had thought), so it would prove really hard for him to keep his side of the agreement.

When they opened the door to 221B Baker Street Mrs Hudson was actually waylaying them.

'Boys, I need a word! The mess you've made upstairs! The whole house smells like a smoking chamber.'

Despite the harsh words she couldn't help but smile. She remembered her recent conversations with Sherlock and assumed that this smell was the result of his efforts.

'Sorry, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock walked up to her and kissed her soundly on the cheek. 'Won't happen again. John is going to take over. No more egg disasters!' John smiled.

'Glad to hear that, boys!'

She winked at them, a recently acquired habit that was quite inexplicable to John, but not to Sherlock who remembered the conversation he had with her in the hall after he and John had spent their first night together.

Mrs Hudson left them to it and John and Sherlock walked up to their flat, which was still in the sorry state they had left it this morning. John sighed at the sight of it; he knew quite well who was going to be the one to set it right.

* * *

><p>'John!' Sherlock moaned, arching his back, and his whole body shuddered with pleasure when he came. John looked up at him, studying his reactions, quite indescribably happy to be the one allowed to do that to him. Sherlock was lying there on the bed, panting, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. His eyes were closed, his beautiful face in a state of utmost relaxation. His body flushed and limp now in the orgasmic afterglow.<p>

John lay down next to him, marveling about how young and innocent Sherlock looked in that state. He softly caressed Sherlock's chest and arms and without thinking he said, 'I love you.'

Sherlock's eyes flew open, his whole body went rigid and he sat up on the bed. 'What's wrong?' John asked; a feeling very close to panic fluttering in his stomach. He knew immediately that it had been a mistake.

'Why did you say that?' Sherlock demanded in a voice John had never heard before.

'Because that's what I feel. I just had to.'

'But how can you?'

'What?'

'Love me. How can you?'

John didn't understand, 'What do you mean Sherlock?'

'After what I did to you this afternoon - you were so enraged. I humiliated you in front of others.'

John's heart clenched, he was surprised by Sherlock's emotional inexpertness once again, 'But that was just a minor incident. We talked about it. I don't hold it against you. It didn't change anything. How can you even think that?'

'I just assumed - '

'Well, don't,' John sounded firm which surprised Sherlock.

'It's not only that,' Sherlock felt the need to explain, 'Compared to you I'm so defective. I mean, everyday life is quite –' he was groping for words, an unusual occurrence clearly stating his confusion, ' um - there are so many things - normal things that I'm not good at. With people, for instance, I don't know how to do small talk, I'm simply not _interested_. Being polite is a concept I don't understand,' he couldn't be stopped now, 'I'm awful in the kitchen, I can't keep a room tidy - Most of the time I'm occupied with cases or other things. I sometimes don't talk for hours, I play the violin at all times - '

'Don't forget you're stubborn, arrogant and a smartass,' John added and Sherlock huffed. John continued in a low voice, 'You're also incredibly clever, smart, quick, beautiful and so sexy,' Sherlock looked flabbergasted. 'Your body is driving me mad with desire every time I see you…'

Sherlock leaned back on the bed, his eyes were unreadable, 'Is it?' Damn this man, John thought, how can he hide his emotions in a situation like this? _He_ couldn't, 'You know that it is,' John said and bent down to kiss him.

Only later John realized that Sherlock had in fact not reciprocated his declaration of love. He thought about that fact with Sherlock sleeping in his arms, his face nuzzling up to his neck. He didn't quite know what to make of it, but he decided to put it down to Sherlock's emotional clumsiness. John stayed awake, musing and absentmindedly caressing the smooth skin on Sherlock's shoulders. John's tender touch finally made him stir.

'Love you, John,' he murmured drowsily and this simple sentence, albeit muttered almost subconsciously, made John cry.

* * *

><p><strong>AN** I hope you liked it! reviews would be lovely ;-)


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